


the house is burning (better run for cover)

by estora



Series: run for cover [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, M/M, Suicide Attempt, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-26 19:17:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20747390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estora/pseuds/estora
Summary: McKay looks lost, an expression Sheppard has seen on his face only once: John, I’ve never been so scared, I’m slipping away, I’m slipping away and I don’t know how to stop myself.How do you escape a time loop when you don't even know you're in one?





	the house is burning (better run for cover)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Gabrielle Aplin's _[Run For Cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3_8FEONLkE8)_.

He’s awake before his alarm goes off at 0615 hours, but only because he’d forgotten to close the curtains last night and the glare of the early morning sun strikes him between the eyes. Sheppard rouses with a groan, shifting _War & Peace_ off his chest (page 32 dog-eared) and dumps it on the bedside table next to the guitar (loosened strings, half-tuned).

Sheppard has a system: he dresses, runs a hand through his hair, pulls on his shoes and steps out onto the balcony to decide whether to wear a jacket or not. It’s a nice day; he hangs the jacket on his surfboard, straightens his golfing bag, and closes the curtains before he leaves his quarters. The Johnny Cash poster isn’t going to protect itself from sun fade.

“You’re late,” Ronon drawls as Sheppard falls into rhythm with the jog.

“Only by your standards,” Sheppard huffs, barely keeping up. It’s a 5km jog this morning. Ronon clocks it in at 21 minutes, John at 23.

“Weak,” Ronon laughs as they head in separate directions; Ronon to his quarters, Sheppard to the mess hall. “Not washing off?”

“It’s pancake morning. Need to get there before McKay eats it all.”

“He’s never up this early,” Ronon says, and it’s true, McKay is rarely seen in public before 9am but this morning he’s in the corner of the mess hall, hunched over a laptop and his fingers flying over the keys. Sheppard loads up on pancakes and slides into the seat opposite McKay, squinting at his lack of food.

“Morning,” Sheppard says. “You’re –”

“Up early?” McKay says distractedly, not looking up, “Yes, I know. It’s pancake day.”

“With genuine Canadian maple syrup,” Sheppard adds, and waits for McKay to gloat about superior Canadian cuisine.

No response.

“Of course, I prefer sugar and lemon juice myself,” Sheppard quips.

Silence. Hmm. Sheppard stabs a fork into his stack. “No plate?”

“No.”

“Did you eat already?”

“Not hungry,” Rodney mutters without looking up, his fingers skimming over the laptop keys.

“Not hungry, he says,” Sheppard drawls. “That’s a bold lie, McKay, you’re always hungry.”

“It’s called hypoglycaemia.”

Usually McKay says that with a snap or a sneer, or a pointed ‘how many times do I have to tell you’ expression; not with a defeated sigh. Sheppard frowns. “What’s the matter? Are you –”

“I’m fine.” McKay keeps typing.

“You just said you haven’t had any pancakes and that you’re not hungry. Unless there’s –”

“There’s no citrus in the pancakes, I checked.”

Sheppard is used to being in synch with McKay; starting a sentence and waiting for McKay to finish it, and vice versa, but he’s not usually _that_ predictable, nor McKay usually that perceptive.

He leans over to glance at the screen. “What are you –”

“It doesn’t matter what I’m working on!” McKay snaps, slamming the lid of his laptop shut. Everyone in the mess hall, about twenty people, jump and stare. “I don’t have a lot of time and the last thing I need is for you to distract me! And you know what, you’re right, I chose a stupid place to work if I don’t want distractions, but the mess hall is a good sample size for my research and no I’m not going to tell you, so just – go sit somewhere else and enjoy your food and leave me be.”

Jesus, all right. Sheppard picks up his tray and leaves, joining Lorne instead.

“How’s the painting going, Major?” he asks, digging into the pancakes.

“Almost done with the latest, Colonel,” Lorne says proudly. “Want to see it?”

Not particularly, but Sheppard makes a point of being supportive of his soldiers’ creative hobbies. It’s an impressive work, a landscape of the ocean with Atlantis in the foreground surrounded by her puddle jumpers and drones, cast against a starry night sky and a full moon.

After he makes his escape, he showers and roams the large corridors of his city of silver and water. Atlantis’s song is quieter today, her response to his presence the brush of his fingers across her panels weaker, almost sluggish. He plays golf off the edge of the southwest pier until he runs out of balls, and tunes back into the minutia of the day when Woolsey comms him to tell him there are complaints coming out of the science labs and can Sheppard get the ‘situation’ (code for a one Dr M. Rodney McKay) back under control, please?

Sheppard sighs, and makes his way to the labs.

The ‘situation’ makes itself immediately obvious: all five of McKay’s scientists huddled outside (thrown out?) and watching him through the glass panels. “What’s going on here?” Sheppard asks.

Zelenka faces him. “Oh, Colonel Sheppard, thank goodness,” he says. He pulls his glasses off, cleaning them with sharp, jerky movements. “Rodney has gone – mad. He’s been at this for hours!”

Sheppard peers into the room. “What is he _doing?_” he breathes, and it’s a fair question: McKay has shoved all the tables and chairs off to the sides of the room, and has set up all eight of the whiteboards in a row which are filled with lines and lines of equations. He’s talking to himself, throwing the markers down when they run out of ink and scrubbing his hands through his hair.

“He’s just started on the eighth white board,” Zelenka explains. “He won’t eat, he won’t drink, he won’t explain.”

“Get Carson up here,” Sheppard says, and enters the lab.

McKay doesn’t even notice him come in, or if he does, he doesn’t care – he just keeps talking to himself and writing, the marker squeaking on the board, until he wraps up the last equation and groans, pressing the heel of his palm into his eyes.

“Rodney, what is all this?” Sheppard asks gently, reaching for his friend’s shoulder.

McKay throws the marker at the whiteboard, knocking Sheppard’s hand off his shoulder. The marker strikes the board and ricochets back at McKay, hitting him in the chest. “You’re the Could’ve-Been-In-MENSA guy,” he snarls, flinging his hand out at the boards, “you tell me!”

But it’s not his usual anger; there are tears in his eyes, he looks _gutted_, an expression Sheppard has seen on his face only once: _John, I’ve never been so scared, I’m slipping away, I’m slipping away and I don’t know how to stop myself._

So Sheppard looks at the boards and the lines and lines of equations, borderline gibberish, except that it’s not. “It almost… looks like…” he says, frowning.

“Yeah,” McKay says, rubbing his brow. “It’s exactly that.”

Time. Sheppard twists and stares at McKay. “I don’t understand.”

McKay looks at his watch. “Twelve-fourteen. We’re out of time for me to explain in this one.” He sighs. “I’m sorry, John. I really thought I was close this time. I have to start again.”

“Look, whatever’s going on, just tell me. I’ll help however I can, I just –"

* * *

He’s awake before his alarm goes off at 0615 hours, but only because he’d forgotten to close the curtains last night and the glare of the early morning sun strikes him between the eyes. Sheppard rouses with a groan, shifting _War & Peace_ off his chest (page 32 dog-eared) and dumps it on the bedside table.

Sheppard has a system: he dresses, runs a hand through his hair, pulls on his shoes and steps out onto the balcony to decide whether or not to wear a jacket. It’s a nice day; he hangs the jacket on his surfboard, and closes the curtains before he leaves his quarters. The Johnny Cash poster isn’t going to protect itself from sun fade.

“You’re late,” Ronon drawls as Sheppard falls into rhythm with the jog.

“Only by your standards,” Sheppard huffs, barely keeping up. It’s a 5km jog this morning. Ronon clocks it in at 21 minutes, John at 23.

“Weak,” Ronon laughs as they head in separate directions; Ronon to his quarters, Sheppard to the mess hall. “Not washing off?”

“It’s pancake morning. Need to get there before McKay eats it all.”

“He’s never up this early,” Ronon says, and it’s true – McKay isn’t there, so Sheppard takes his time loading up on pancakes and genuine Canadian maple syrup and joins Lorne at his table.

“How’s the painting going, Major?”

“Almost done with the latest, Colonel,” Lorne says proudly. “Want to see it?”

Not particularly, but Sheppard makes a point of being supportive of his soldiers’ creative hobbies. It’s an impressive work, a landscape of the ocean with Atlantis in the foreground surrounded by her puddle jumpers, cast against a night sky and a full moon.

After he makes his escape, he showers and roams the large, mostly empty corridors of his city of silver and water. Atlantis’s song is quiet today, her response to his presence the brush of his fingers across her panels weak, sluggish. He walks along the southwest pier until Woolsey comms him to tell him there are complaints coming out of the science labs and can Sheppard get the ‘situation’ (code for a one Dr M. Rodney McKay) back under control, please?

The ‘situation’ makes itself immediately obvious: all four of McKay’s scientists huddled outside (thrown out?) and watching McKay through the glass panels. “What’s going on here?” Sheppard asks, and before anyone can respond, a laptop gets thrown through the window. Sheppard jumps back with a curse and orders the scientists to clear out.

“Hey, enough! _Enough!_” he yells, storming in between chairs and valuable, priceless equipment getting launched all over the thoroughly trashed lab. He grabs McKay by the arms, forcing his friend to stop and breathe. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”

“He’s gone!” McKay yells.

“Who’s gone?”

“Radek! Radek Zelenka!”

Sheppard frowns. “Who?”

McKay snarls and jerks out of his grasp. “Radek Zelenka, small Czech guy with glasses, crazy hair? Engineer? Come on, Sheppard!”

Sheppard doesn’t remember McKay hitting his head on the last mission, but he’s been jumpy about McKay seeing things or forgetting things since the parasite. Probably time to get Carson up here. Sheppard reaches for his earpiece. “Rodney, look, you’ve… been under a lot of stress lately, but –”

“It’s funny,” McKay continues, pacing back and forth, “you’d think I’d be less hysterical than when Teyla vanished. And don’t get me wrong, I was! I spent five loops curled up in my quarters until my powerbars started disappearing! She was the only one who believed me from the moment I told her, because she felt something was wrong even though she didn’t remember Torren! But she couldn’t help me with equations and engineering like Radek can, and now he’s gone too and the sample size is decreasing more and more every single loop which means the rate of decay is accelerating exponentially.”

Sheppard blinks. “I have no… idea who or what you’re talking about it.”

McKay stares at him helplessly, tears in his eyes. He looks _gutted_, an expression Sheppard has seen on his face only once: _John, I’ve never been so scared, I’m slipping away, I’m slipping away and I don’t know how to stop myself._

“I’m trying to say – I can’t fix this,” McKay says. He reaches for Sheppard’s arms; Sheppard reaches back, catching McKay before he can collapse. “John. I don’t think I can fix th—”

* * *

He’s awake before his alarm goes off at 0615 hours, but only because he’d forgotten to close the curtains last night and the glare of the early morning sun strikes him between the eyes. Sheppard rouses with a groan, shifting _War & Peace_ off his chest (page 32 dog-eared) and dumps it on the bedside table.

Sheppard has a system: he dresses, runs a hand through his hair, pulls on his shoes. He closes the curtains before he leaves his quarters. The Johnny Cash poster isn’t going to protect itself from sun fade.

“You’re late,” Ronon drawls as Sheppard falls into rhythm with the jog.

“Only by your standards,” Sheppard huffs, barely keeping up. 

They make it half a kilometre before Sheppard slams into McKay.

“Oh, thank god,” McKay babbles while Sheppard wheezes through his winded gut, waving at Ronon to keep on going and that he’ll catch up (“In your dreams, Sheppard,” Ronon laughs) later. “I went to find you this morning but you weren’t in your quarters and I thought you’d vanished like the others, I thought you were _gone_ –”

“Rodney, Rodney, I’m right here, it’s okay, it’s all right,” Sheppard says. “Just – take a breath, calm down, tell me what’s wrong.”

“I can’t do this anymore,” McKay whispers, and his nose starts to bleed – a slow tickle at first, then a rush. He sways and his eyes roll back into his head, and Sheppard catches him before his knees give out.

“_Rodney!_”

It’s several hours before McKay finally wakes up in the infirmary. Sheppard hasn’t left his side, despite Carson’s insistence that he at least go and get breakfast – they’re serving pancakes this morning. But the brain scan and Carson’s horrified reaction to it basically ensures his feet are bolted to the floor of the infirmary.

“Rodney,” Carson tells him, his voice soft with shock, “I cannae explain it, but you seem to have massive scar tissue through your brain. It’s almost as if you’ve downloaded an entire year’s worth of memories into your head since this morning.”

“Is it dangerous?” Sheppard asks, when McKay doesn’t say anything.

“Aye, the human brain is not meant to withstand anything like this. Do you know what’s caused it?”

“No,” McKay lies, very badly.

“Hmm. Well, let me set up another scan, just to double-check.”

“I’ll stay with him, Doc,” Sheppard says, glaring down at McKay, who’s just twisting the fabric of the bed covers between his fingers. As soon as Carson is out of earshot, Sheppard hisses, “You know exactly what’s going on, don’t you!”

McKay sighs. “Yes, Sheppard.”

Unless McKay stuck his head in an Ancient repository, there’s only one other possible explanation, and it’s so insane that Sheppard _has_ to ask. “Rodney,” he says, “how many times have you lived this day?”

There’s a terse silence. Then McKay looks up, blinking at Sheppard with clearing eyes. “Not the full day, John,” he says. “Just the last six hours.”

Sheppard takes three things from this response: McKay isn’t shocked that Sheppard reached this conclusion, which means Sheppard has reached this conclusion before, which means he’s right.

As far as things in the Pegasus Galaxy go, it’s not the weirdest situation he’s ever been in. “All right, then,” Sheppard says, “let me rephrase: how many times have you lived the last six hours?”

“A thousand and twelve times.”

Sheppard runs the numbers. “That’s… the equivalent of 253 days.”

“Oh, so, not quite a year then. Told you that medical science is barely science.”

Sheppard shakes his head and sits on the edge of the bed. “Rodney, whatever is going on – just tell me,” he begs. “When the day resets, tell me first thing in the morning so we can work out what’s going on and why this is happening. We’ll figure this out.” He grasps McKay’s hand. “_Together._”

McKay stares at him helplessly, tears in his eyes. He looks _gutted_, an expression Sheppard has seen on his face only once: _John, I’ve never been so scared, I’m slipping away, I’m slipping away and I don’t know how to stop myself. _

“I already know what’s happening _and_ why it’s happening,” McKay says. “There’s nothing to figure out, John. I _caused_ this.”

He looks down at Sheppard’s watch and starts to laugh, starts to cry.

“Rodney –” Sheppard says.

* * *

He’s awake before his alarm goes off at 0615 hours, but only because he’d forgotten to close the curtains last night and the glare of the early morning sun strikes him between the eyes. He dresses, runs a hand through his hair, pulls on his shoes. He closes the curtains before he leaves his quarters. The Johnny Cash poster isn’t going to protect itself from sun fade.

“You’re late,” Ronon drawls as Sheppard falls into rhythm with the jog.

“Only by your standards,” Sheppard huffs, barely keeping up. It’s a 5km jog this morning. Ronon clocks it in at 21 minutes, John at 23.

“Weak,” Ronon laughs as they head in separate directions; Ronon to his quarters, Sheppard to the mess hall. “Not washing off?”

“It’s pancake morning. Need to get there before McKay eats it all.”

“He’s never up this early,” Ronon says, and it’s true, McKay is rarely seen in public before 9am but this morning he’s in the centre of the mess hall with a large plate of pancakes before him.

“Morning,” Sheppard says, sliding into the opposite chair with his own plate. “You’re up –”

“Early?” McKay says distractedly, not looking up. “Yes, I know, but it’s pancake day. Except there’s no genuine Canadian maple syrup to go with it.”

He sounds – different. Odd.

“I prefer sugar and lemon juice myself,” Sheppard quips.

“You made that joke already.”

“When?”

McKay stares at his pile of pancakes. “Forget it.”

“What’s wrong? You seem… off.”

McKay sighs. “I’m just tired, John. I’m really just… so very, very tired.” He scrubs his face with his hand and smiles wearily. “At least the Wraith aren’t a problem today.”

“Wraith?”

“Never mind.” He stands without finishing his plate. “Enjoy the rest of your breakfast while it lasts.”

Sheppard watches him leave, then looks around and joins the only other person in the mess hall that morning. “How’s the painting going, Major?”

“Almost done with the latest, Colonel,” Lorne says proudly. “Want to see it?”

Not particularly, but Sheppard makes a point of being supportive of his soldiers’ creative hobbies. It’s an impressive work, a landscape of the ocean with Atlantis in the foreground, cast against a night sky.

After he makes his escape, he showers and roams the large, empty corridors of his city of silver and water. He walks along the southwest pier until the mood for lunch strikes him. Sheppard glances at his watch. 1201 hours. He swings by the lab first, but Miko tells him that McKay’s in his quarters, so he goes there instead and waves his hand over the sensor. “Hey, McKay – wanna get lunch?”

No answer.

He swipes the sensor again, then hammers on the door when there’s no response. “McKay! C’mon, I know you’re in there.”

Silence. Sheppard scowls and pries the panel open, and pushes the doors apart. McKay is sitting on the edge of his bed with his back to the door, shoulders slumped, and his right hand holding a Beretta 92 to his temple.

Sheppard thinks he yells McKay’s name, but it’s drowned out by the blast of the gun and the spray of red and grey against the wall. Something hot and sharp strikes Sheppard’s cheek. He reaches up, numb, and pulls the object off his face. It’s jagged, white, covered in blood. He falls to his knees and wretches –

* * *

He’s awake before his alarm goes off at 0615 hours, but only because he’d forgotten to close the curtains last night and the glare of the early morning sun strikes him between the eyes. He dresses, runs a hand through his hair, pulls on his shoes. He closes the curtains before he leaves his quarters. The Johnny Cash poster isn’t going to protect itself from sun fade.

He jogs through the vacant halls of Atlantis – 5km in 25 minutes. Not bad timing, not good either. He doesn’t bother showering off; it’s pancake morning and he needs to get to the mess hall before McKay does, otherwise there won’t be any pancakes left. Normally it’s not a problem; McKay is rarely seen in public before 9am.

The second Sheppard sits down with his tray, McKay slides into the seat opposite him.

“Morning,” Sheppard says, “you’re –”

“Shut up and let me talk,” McKay says. He’s gripping the sides of his tray so tightly his knuckles are white. “We are currently one thousand and fourteen days into a time loop that I caused. I can fix it any time I want, at the cost of your life. I’ve spent the last hour in the labs completing some equations and I need you to proof them, because if I’ve even got a single number or letter wrong then I’ll have upgraded the universe from a steadily accelerating decay to possibly obliterating it in the blink of an eye by the time of the next reset.”

Sheppard stares. “Come again?”

It takes a few hours and five more times for McKay to explain it all before it starts making sense, and when it does, Sheppard surprises himself with how easily he accepts it. When in Pegasus, he supposes. Weirder things have happened. He goes over the numbers and equations, pointing out errors on the second whiteboard, questioning McKay’s reasoning on the fifth. Normally McKay would get all huffy and arrogant at the mere suggestion that he’s made an error, but McKay just nods and corrects whatever Sheppard points out, as if he’s too exhausted to do anything but breathe and make it through the final hour of this loop. It’s not until McKay’s nose starts bleeding and he passes out that Sheppard panics.

“Don’t you dare leave me alone with this,” Sheppard warns, cradling McKay’s head in his lap and wiping the blood away. “We’re almost there and I need you to explain things to me in the next loop, buddy.”

McKay’s eyes flutter open. “John?”

“Hey, there you are.”

McKay stuffs the tissues that Sheppard holds out for him under his nose and mops the blood away. “I’m sorry.”

Sheppard runs his hand through McKay’s hair. “You’ve lived the same six hours more than a thousand times over, just to try and save me. Don’t apologise.”

“You wouldn’t be so understanding if you knew how you died in the first place.”

“Did we do something stupid?” Sheppard asks.

That makes McKay snort. “Very.” He takes Sheppard’s hand. For a moment, Sheppard thinks McKay intends to twine their fingers together, but then McKay rotates his wrist to glances at his watch, and cringes. “We’re out of time again.” He looks lost – no, _terrified_, an expression Sheppard has seen on his face only once: _John, I’ve never been so scared, I’m slipping away, I’m slipping away and I don’t know how to stop myself. _“John… I don’t know what to do.”

Sheppard cups the back of McKay’s neck and leans down, pressing their foreheads together as the seconds tick away. “If anyone can fix this, Rodney, it’s –”

* * *

He’s awake before his alarm goes off at 0615 hours, but only because his quarters don’t have curtains and the glare of the early morning sun strikes him between the eyes. He dresses, runs a hand through his hair, pulls on his shoes, and jogs.

McKay catches him before he even finishes. “Morning,” Sheppard says. “You’re up early.”

“Yeah, well, I thought there were going to be pancakes,” McKay says grimly. “Come with me.”

Sheppard has nothing else to do. He shrugs and follows, allowing McKay to lead him through their city of silver and water, through the transporters and empty corridors until they reach their destination. “This is Janus’s lab,” Sheppard says. “What are we doing here?”

“In my spare time I was doing research into some of his inventions.” McKay points at a glowing device in the middle of the room, hooked up to his laptop. “That device is called a _Veras Erratus_. At first we thought it was a lie detector, but when we worked out what it actually does, I nicknamed it the Omega 13, yes, exactly like in _Galaxy Quest_, except instead of it giving you thirteen seconds to fix a mistake, it gives you six hours to fix a mistake.”

He doesn't know what most of that means, but that's not unusual where McKay is concerned. “Useful.”

“We thought so, except for the part where its activation requires a life.” McKay rubs his forehead. “A life for a life. Small print that wasn’t on the instruction manual, something about balance and scales and the laws of physics, so on and so forth. I made you activate it one thousand and fifteen loops ago, and you died.”

Sheppard blinks. “I _died?_”

“Yes, Sheppard, keep up,” McKay says. “You died, so naturally, I tried to fix that mistake by using the device.”

“So I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. The first time, I thought if I could just keep you away from it, you’d be fine, but then you dropped dead at 12.15pm. When I realised what we did, what – what _I_ did, to you, I jury-rigged the device to make it repeat the same six hours before your death. I worked out pretty quick that it didn’t matter if you didn’t touch the device during the loops, because you already activated it. That can’t be undone. The second I turn off the device and get time flowing again, past 12.15pm today, you _stay_ dead, forever. I thought by looping it, that would give me enough time to study it, to work out how to break the loop without the cost, but I can’t. We’ve run the numbers in other loops and nothing works. You’re dead, John. I can’t figure out how to progress time, while keeping you alive.” McKay staggers into a chair, covering his face with his hands. “I’m… so sorry.”

Sheppard reaches for his shoulder. “Hey…”

When McKay looks up, his face and hands are covered in blood.

“Jesus! Rodney, your nose!”

McKay clutches his dripping nose. “Shit,” he whispers. “Shit, not now.” His face has gone grey, his blue eyes wide and terrified. Sheppard helps him to the floor to lie down.

“You’re dying,” Sheppard realises. He takes off his shirt and gives it to McKay, bunching it up under his dripping nose.

“Mmm, yes, well,” McKay mumbles against the bloodied material. “An Ancient would be able to handle the repeated stress of filling the brain with several hundred traumatic days in the space of about six hours, but a human? Our stupid monkey brains weren’t designed for this. I think I have one, maybe two more loops to save you before I die permanently. If I die again, next time I don’t think I’ll come back –”

“Again?” Sheppard repeats. “_Next time_? You’ve already died?”

“I tried to kill myself in one of the loops to see if that would fix things. I think you might’ve seen the end of it. Sorry.”

“Rodney, what the _fuck._”

“John, that doesn’t matter.” McKay puts the blood-drenched shirt down. His nose has stopped dripping for the moment. “What matters is that if I die permanently, you won’t even remember me, and if that happens, then you and Atlantis and the universe as we know it will be trapped forever in this loop until _everything_ disappears.”

“Things are disappearing?”

“The moon. The stars. The symbols on the Stargate. The people.”

“Everything seems fine to me,” Sheppard says.

McKay shakes his head. “How many personnel are on Atlantis, right now?”

“Uh – seven.”

“Doesn’t that seem a bit _small_ to you for an international expedition? For a city this size?”

“Sure, we’ve lost a couple of people over the years, but –”

“Who’s the expedition leader?” McKay demands.

Sheppard blinks.

“Who’s the Chief Medical Officer? Who else is on your team besides me?”

“…I… I don’t…”

McKay smiles, but it’s grim, bitter. “See?” he says. “Doesn’t make sense, does it?”

Sheppard swallows hard. “We have to stop this. Fix it.”

McKay looks lost, an expression Sheppard has seen on his face only once: _John, I’ve never been so scared, I’m slipping away, I’m slipping away and I don’t know how to stop myself. _“I’ve been trying.”

“No, I mean – if what you say is true and the universe is disintegrating because I’m alive when I shouldn’t be, then you have to let me go.”

McKay’s eyes harden. “Don’t.”

“I mean it.”

“No, John, we’ve already had this conversation. We’ve had it about a hundred and twenty times. There’s nothing you’ve been able to say yet that will make me change my mind.”

“Why not?” Sheppard demands. “Why am I more important than the people you said we’ve lost? The galaxy? The _universe?_”

“_Seriously?_” McKay basically snarls, pushing himself up to a sitting position. “You’re seriously asking me that? I’ve taken physics out back and beaten it to death with my bare hands for you! I’m single-handedly unravelling all of existence atom by fucking atom to try and save your life and you’re asking me _why you’re more important to me_ than the universe, why do you fucking _think,_ you _assh_–”

Sheppard captures McKay’s moving lips with his mouth, silencing him. McKay grunts, then kisses back, hard and violent, his arms wrapping around Sheppard’s shoulders as Sheppard grasps his waist. The angle is wrong and their noses knock and there’s an unpleasant clash of teeth but it’s so good, it’s everything Sheppard has never known he’s wanted and he never wants the feeling of McKay’s lips under his to go away.

But then he tastes blood dripping between their mouths and he pulls back.

“No,” Sheppard breathes, and McKay’s nose drips blood down his lips and chin, and his dazed eyes lose focus as he sways. Sheppard grabs him, holding him upright. “Rodney, no, you stay with me, don’t leave me, stay with me, damn it –”

McKay’s eyes roll back into his head and his breath rattles in his chest, and –

* * *

He’s awake before his alarm goes off at 0615 hours, but only because his quarters don’t have curtains and the glare of the early morning sun strikes him between the eyes. He dresses, runs a hand through his hair, and jogs barefoot through the quiet, empty halls of Atlantis.

At breakfast, he and the other member of the expedition sit and drink water from the tap in silence.

“What’s wrong?” Lorne asks.

“Not sure,” Sheppard says. “How’s the painting going, Major?”

“Almost done with the latest, Colonel,” Lorne says proudly. “Want to see it?”

Not particularly, but Sheppard makes a point of being supportive of his soldiers’ creative hobbies. The canvas is painted black.

They have water again for lunch.

* * *

His alarm wakes him at 0615 hours. He dresses, runs a hand through his hair and jogs barefoot through the quiet, empty halls of Atlantis. It’s always been dark.

At breakfast, he and Lorne drink water from the tap in silence.

“What’s wrong?” Lorne asks.

“Not sure,” Sheppard says.

They have water again for lunch.

* * *

He doesn’t know what time he wakes up. He runs a hand through his hair and jogs barefoot through the empty halls of Atlantis. It’s always been dark. He’s always been alone. He runs and he runs and he runs.

At breakfast, he drinks water from the tap in silence, and he stays there until lunch.

* * *

He wakes. He doesn’t know what time it is. He runs a hand through his hair. He jogs barefoot through the empty halls of Atlantis. It’s always been dark. He’s always been alone. He runs and he runs and he runs.

* * *

He wakes. He jogs barefoot through the dark, empty halls of Atlantis. He runs and he runs and he runs.

* * *

He wakes. He jogs barefoot through the dark, empty halls. He runs and he runs and he runs.

* * *

He wakes. He jogs through the dark, empty halls. He runs and he runs and he runs.

His city of silver and water is dark and cold and silent. She does not sing, she does not breathe. His feet pound against the floor like muted thunder.

He runs and he runs and he runs, until he can run no further and he collapses to his hands and knees in a room, drawn there by a faint silver glow. When he looks up, the room is empty but for the source of the light, a pulsating device in the centre.

He rises to his feet, approaching it slowly. It pulses in time with the pounding of his heart. _Off_, he thinks. This should be _off_.

He reaches for it. _Off_, he thinks, and –

* * *

He’s awake before his alarm goes off at 0615 hours, but only because he’d forgotten to close the curtains last night and the glare of the early morning sun strikes him between the eyes. Sheppard rouses with a groan, shifting _War & Peace_ off his chest (page 32 bookmarked with the Athosian necklace Teyla gave him for his birthday last year) and dumps it on the bedside table next to the guitar (loosened strings, half-tuned, pick dropped inside the sound hole).

Sheppard has a system: he dresses, runs a hand with some gel through his hair, attaches his earpiece, pulls on his shoes and steps out onto the balcony to decide whether to wear a jacket or not. It’s a nice day. He comms Teyla and asks if she’d fancy a trip to the mainland later, if Woolsey doesn’t assign them a mission, then hangs the jacket on his surfboard, straightens his golfing bag, and closes the curtains before he leaves his quarters. The Johnny Cash poster isn’t going to protect itself from sun fade.

“You’re late,” Ronon drawls as Sheppard falls into rhythm with the jog.

“Only by your standards,” Sheppard huffs, barely keeping up. It’s a 5km jog this morning. Ronon clocks it in at 21 minutes, John at 23.

“Weak,” Ronon laughs as they head in separate directions; Ronon to his quarters, Sheppard to the mess hall. “Not washing off?”

“It’s pancake morning. Need to get there before McKay eats it all.”

“Sheppard!” McKay’s voice hollers down the corridor.

“Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” Sheppard drawls to Ronon as they both turn to face McKay. "You're up early."

“I've been awake all night, actually, but that's beside the point. Come with me – I’ve found something and I need you to activate it.”

“You don’t want to have breakfast first?” Sheppard says dubiously.

McKay waves a hand. “I’ll eat later.”

“It’s pancakes. With genuine Canadian maple syrup.”

McKay brightens. “Oh, really?”

“But I prefer sugar and lemon juice myself.”

“Hilarious. Well, just ask Teyla if she can hoard me some pancakes, this won’t take long.”

“Must be important if you’re willing to miss out on pancakes,” Sheppard comments.

“For the best,” Ronon drawls, and pokes McKay in the stomach before walking off. “You’re getting fat, McKay.”

“That’s just rude,” McKay pouts, rubbing his stomach. “Okay, fine. Meet you there after breakfast?”

“Where’s ‘there’?”

“Janus’s lab.”

“Rodney…”

“Nothing dangerous, I swear! Just – come find me when you’re ready, it’s really cool, I promise.”

Sheppard agrees and goes straight to the mess hall. He loads his plate up, and sits with Lorne and Teyla.

“How’s the painting going, Major?” he asks, digging into the pancakes.

“Almost done with the latest, Colonel,” Lorne says proudly. “Do both of you want to see it?”

“We would like that very much, Major,” Teyla says politely. It’s not what Sheppard wants to do with his morning – he’d prefer to hit golf balls off the southwest pier – but he makes a point of being supportive of his soldiers’ creative hobbies. It’s an impressive work, a landscape of the whale-filled ocean with Atlantis in the foreground surrounded by her puddle jumpers and drones, cast against a starry night sky and a full moon. He leaves Teyla and Torren to admiring it, and escapes to shower then roams the large corridors of his city of silver and water. Atlantis sings for him, her response to his presence the brush of his fingers across her panels pulsing and vibrant on his way to Janus’s lab.

“Oh, good, you finally came,” McKay says. He glances at his watch and scowls. “It’s after midday!”

“Better late than never,” Sheppard says. “Make this quick, yeah? I promised to go to the mainland with Teyla after lunch.”

“Yes, yes, fine, this’ll be fast.”

McKay announces the discovery of what he originally thought was a lie-detector, but has since renamed the Omega 13.

“Like in _Galaxy Quest?_” Sheppard asks.

“Exactly like in _Galaxy Quest_, except according to my analysis, this device would give us six hours.”

“That’s… really useful.”

“Right! Imagine what we could do with this in the war against the Wraith.” McKay beams and rocks back on his heels. “Well? You going to activate it?”

Sheppard reaches for it, but before he can brush his fingers across the device, he pauses, and pulls back.

“What’s wrong?” McKay asks.

“I'm not sure. Déjà vu.”

McKay frowns. “Of what? Of this?”

Sheppard looks at his watch. “Rodney?”

“Yeah?”

Sheppard closes his eyes presses his lips to McKay’s, and kisses him like it’s the last minute they’ll ever have.


End file.
